The Sensation of the Heat
by redandhiswolf
Summary: Stiles isn't depressed, he isn't one of those kids that sits and listens to heavy metal and wears all black. No, Stiles is happy, he's just numb. Sometimes he's just a shell and well, the blade brings him back and fills the shell.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first story that I've posted anywhere., so I'm really nervous and excited about it. It will hopefully be the first of many stories that I post if enough people want me to write more. The second and third chapters are already being written so they should be up soonish. Enjoy :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters or Teen Wolf. The story contains self-harm so just a little trigger warning to go with that.**

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Stiles isn't depressed, he isn't one of those kids that sits and listens to heavy metal and wears all black. No, Stiles is happy, he's just numb. Sometimes he's just a shell and well, the blade brings him back and fills the shell. Sometimes he feels like a let down, like he will never please his mother, that he isn't what his parents had expected him to be. Other times he just likes to be reminded that he fails at things. Shells can't fail like Stiles can. Being reminded of these things only reminds Stiles that he isn't a shell.

One slice to receive the overwhelming sensation of heat, one slice to remind him that he isn't as numb as he feels, one slice to remind him how much of a disappointment he is and finally, one deeper, longer slice to be a constant reminder of his failures. Four swipes of the blade along his wrists, four swipes of the blade to calm him. With one wrist stinging, he moves onto the next wrist, the one scattered with the most past reminders, some scars small and almost unnoticeable others larger and paler, but all the scars on this wrist look precise and neatly placed. The blade meets this wrist more often, his right hand much steadier than his left. His right wrist is a mangle of more jagged marks, carelessly placed by a shaking hand.

This is definitely not the first time that Stiles has settled into the tub, razor in hand. Actually he could sit here for hours leaving more marks, studying older ones, running long fingers over still-tender cuts from the night before. But of course he can only stay in the bathroom so long before his dad or one of his werewolf acquaintances comes knocking on the door asking for something he can't give them or tell them. Most nights he hopes it's his dad that knocks, his dad can't smell the blood or the pain that rolls off of him in waves, his dad is easier to keep in the dark. After months of lying about wolves and supernatural creatures, lying about his mental state is a walk in the park. So his dad remains oblivious to his current state of mind, the wolves however, are a different story. True, they don't know the extent of his situation but they know there's something up with him, they know he's quieter than usual, they notice how he's become more jumpy whenever someone comes to close or touches his arms, they know but they don't know, not really.

He glances at his phone and notices he's been in the tub for 2 hours. _Another hour and I'll get out_, he thinks and he picks up the blade and begins slicing, calming himself. The blood drips from his wrist into the bathwater. It's enchanting almost, watching the blood drops become swirls of red in the clear water. It's hard to get a good grip on the blade as blood from his earlier cuts starts to coat his hand. He drops the razor and it makes a loud noise on the side of the tub in the otherwise silent room. Not even a minute later and there's a knock on the door, bringing him out of this trance. _They'll go eventually_, he thinks, _They probably think I'm jerking off._

He shrugs it off and picks up the blade ready to slice a few more reminders into the skin on his left wrist when the knocking returns. Sighing, he climbs out of the tub, wraps a towel around his waist and hides the razor behind the pipe under the sink. There's another knock on the door, this time heavier more demanding. He knows it can't be his dad because he's on the late-shift again, _probably one of the puppies wanting moan about Derek and his horrendous training exercises. _

"Yeah, yeah, keep your knickers on wolfy." He doesn't receive a reply so he knows it's not Erica wanting to watch the Batman movies or Isaac wanting to talk about his daddy issues, because they always throw out a snarky reply. But when he unlocks and pulls open the door, making sure to keep his arms folded and hidden, Derek Hale king of the leather clad wolf gang, is the last person he's expecting to see standing on the other side.


	2. Chapter 2

**There's a twist in this chapter, that will reveal the main reason behind what Stiles does.** **  
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**Warning: Self-harm and mentions of sexual assault.**

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He looks up and meets Derek's eyes before pushing past him into his bedroom to start putting some clothes on. He's already yanking on a long-sleeved top before Derek has shut the door to his room and has taken a seat in Stiles' desk chair.

Five minutes pass before anyone says anything, Stiles is now fully dressed and sat on his bed, looking anywhere but at Derek, who has his eyebrows scrunched together as if he's deep in thought. Of course Stiles is the one to break the silence.

"Can I help you at all sourwolf?" The glare Derek levels him with would probably make a child cry.

Derek breathes in deep through his nose before glancing at Stiles' hidden wrists. "Stiles, why can I smell blood?" His voice laced with curiosity and what could possibly pass as worry. _No, that's wrong_, he thought, _Derek Hale doesn't worry about anyone especially not Stiles._

"Look Derek, it's nothing okay? I'm fine... I'm fucking fantastic" He feels more than he sees Derek's movement, the dip in the mattress next to him only solidifies his thoughts. He can feel the way Derek's eyes are boring into his skull, practically begging him to lift his own eyes from where they're fixed on the floor. "You know you can trust me Stiles, you're pack, my pack. We're worried about you"

It's strange, to hear Derek sound like he cares. It's strange to think that he's actually pack, being a puny human and all. "Derek..." It comes out as a whisper, but Derek's there, hand on top of his own. Comforting Stiles, reassuring him.

"Stiles, it's okay. I just want to know what's wrong, why you aren't being your usually increasingly irritating self."

"It's not okay, Derek. How can anything be okay after what's happened? It's not okay, but I'm fine."

He knows Derek can hear the lie, but it isn't like he can just come out and say the truth. He'd probably think Stiles was doing it for attention or lying about what had happened. Stiles knows that his reasons for what he does are lies he made up so he wouldn't have to think about that night. He feels like a shell, he feels numb and he feels like a disappointment for so many reasons, but mainly, he feels like that because they took everything from him, they made him a shell. They made him this and the cutting helps him forget that it's all their fault.

"I know it's not okay, I know that. But I can't know what's wrong if you don't tell me. When the pack got to you, you said they didn't do anything. But you said you were fine then as well." That's when it clicked in Stiles' mind. That had been months ago, but even then Derek knew he had lied about what the Alpha's had done to him in the forest. Derek had known he wasn't okay. But if he had known why didn't he say anything? Why?

"If you knew I was lying back then, why didn't you say anything?"

"Stiles, I didn't say anything because you reeked of fear and pain, I wasn't going to confront you about it when we were clearly so close to a panic attack. I didn't want to make it worse for you."

"Worse for me?!" Now Stiles was mad, his skin was flushed red and his breathing was beginning to pick up, "You calling me out on a lie would not have made it worse Derek. Sitting there for weeks thinking about how dirty I was, how tainted I was, made it worse. Being scared that they would come back and sitting there alone having the images of them forcing..." He couldn't carry on, he couldn't get the words out. Tears began to slide down his cheeks, hands shaking.

"What are you... dirty? Tainted? What Stiles? What did they do?" Derek's voice quieting at the end, almost back at a whisper.

"No Derek. No. Why are you pretending to care? That was months ago, months. I've dealt with the consequences of what happened on that night every night since then. I can deal with it for every night to come."

"I'm not pretending Stiles, you should know that by now. You don't have to cope on your own, tell me what happened and I can help, the pack can help."

The pair were close now, thighs touching, Derek's hand still resting on top of his own. All attention was away from the smell of blood from earlier and was focused on the one night that made Stiles feel worthless and helpless.

"They..." That's as much as he can get out before he has to take in a deep breath and calm himself down again, running a finger over the scabbed marks lying an inch or two up from where Derek's hand rest on his. "They ganged up on me, cornered me, I...I had nowhere to go, they just...they forced me down and..." He takes in another deep breath and feels again for the marks to keep him grounded. "They just let the man...they just let him...it hurt so much Derek." There aren't any tears but Stiles is taking in large gulps of air, waiting for Derek to say something, anything at all. But he doesn't, he just tightens his grip on Stiles' hand. As the grip tightens, Stiles meets Derek's eyes as he sees him putting the pieces of what happened together.

After a few minutes Derek is still sat next to him, looking at him, searching. Stiles is still silent, running his fingers over his wrist. A broken nail catches a scab under the fabric. A tiny amount of blood starts to gather on the wounds surface, only little amounts but the way it makes him freeze up and panic is enough to alert Derek's senses. His eyes flick from Stiles' face down to his wrists, his hands instantly reaching out to grab it. Stiles moves reacts fast enough though and is across the room in seconds.

"No." Is all he says. Once again Derek's eyes find his as he slowly creeps towards him. His lips drawn into a tight line and concern shining through his eyes.

"Stiles..." It's no more than a whisper really, but to Stiles it's as loud as a scream.

"No Derek, I don't want your pity or concern. I'm fine..." A pause, a deep intake of breath, "Everything is fine, I'm dealing with everything. I'm dealing." But with that his voice cracks and tears make their way down his face for a second time that night.

Derek approaches him slowly, hands coming to the bottom of the tops sleeves. Stiles, can feel the fabric being pulled up his arms gently, only slightly scraping the scabbed wounds.

"Stiles..." It's all Derek says before bringing Stiles closer to him.

As soon as Derek brings him into his arms, the tears turn into sobs. His hands coming up to Derek's chest and grabbing tightly at his t-shirt, clutching, seeking an anchor, an anchor better than the scars on his arms. His head buried in Derek's neck, breath warming the skin there.

Stiles knows the scars and marks have distracted Derek from what he'd said about the alpha pack, but he also saw the hatred burning in Derek's eyes as soon as he had put the details together.

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**The next chapter will be up soon and will be mainly what happened "that night" and Derek's reaction to what he's found out.**


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